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Gwen

Y ou’d think after four years of this; I’d have hit my limit. But here I am, another day, another cycle of the same hell. Same kitchen, same routine, counting cash and bagging drugs. My hands aren’t clean. Haven’t been for a long time. Someone once told me I was too good for this life. Maybe they were right. Maybe, just maybe, I should’ve listened. “How much longer?” Jameson yells from the other room. “It’s done,” I call back, tying off the last bag. I never touch the guns. Just the drugs. That’s how he likes it.

I’m so damn tired of this, the endless repetition. The only peace I get is in my head daydreaming while he’s out on deliveries. These past few years have been nothing but chaos. Jail time for fighting back, or, nearly getting killed over a deal gone wrong. I don’t even know how I got here. Fell in with the wrong crowd and never found my way out.

Jameson will be gone all night. Finally, a little peace. A rare thing. Usually, he’s trying to shove his tiny dick in my face before he leaves, but tonight, he seems in more of a hurry than usual. To say I hate him doesn’t even scratch the surface.

I had dreams once. A future. I was on my way. Then he walked in and fucked it all up. "I won't be back until morning. Make sure your ass is here when I get back," he says, eyes dark with a promise of violence. He means every word. I scoff, rolling my eyes. "And how the hell do you expect me to leave when I have no car and no money, dumbass?"

The words barely leave my mouth before he's in front of me, his fingers digging into my cheeks, forcing my face into an ugly, distorted grimace. "Don't be a bitch," he sneers, then smacks me hard across the face. Pain explodes through my jaw, and I cry out, more from the shock than the hit itself.

And just like that, he’s gone. Silence. Finally. I take a shaky breath, pressing my hand against my stinging cheek. I need this time more than ever I need to get my head straight before I make my move. Because what Jameson doesn’t know is that I’ve been planning this night for weeks. Since the moment I found out when the drop was going to happen.

Apparently, drugs and money have been running short, and a few guns are missing. Jameson is in deep shit with whoever runs this city’s underground trade. When you piss off the man who owns the entire drug and gun operation, only a few things can happen. And that’s exactly what I’m counting on.

A few weeks ago, I overheard a phone call Jameson took. Standing on the other side of the door, I could barely pick my jaw up off the floor. He’s in debt fifty grand deep and his collector? Not exactly the patient type.

I listened as closely as I could, catching his desperate pleas and empty promises. None of it seemed to work. The message was clear: pay up, or they take his life and anything else they want. That "something else" was me. Jameson fucking offered me as payment. I may be a twenty-two-year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed Barbie doll, but I’m not a goddamn idiot. That was my moment of clarity run or die. And quite frankly, I’m not ready to die. I’m sure as hell not about to be some asshole’s plaything either.

The house is eerily quiet as I shove the last of my things into a bag shirt, socks, underwear. And, oh yes, the stack of cash Jameson thinks is still taped under the cabinet, right next to his .45 pistols. He stole that money, planning to keep it stashed until he needed an escape. Well, guess what? I need it more. I deserve it after everything he’s put me through the black eyes, the broken fingers, the times he climbed on top of me like I was nothing but a possession. That money? It’s mine now. And when morning comes, he’ll be in for one hell of a shock. I, will be long gone and so will the money he thinks is still taped under the cabinet.

Standing outside, cigarette in hand, I watch as the Uber pulls up to the curb. My stomach knots. This is what I wanted to get out, to start over. Yet, my insides are shaking. Fear.

I haven’t felt it in a long time. Maybe I got used to the adrenaline, to the nerve-wracking highs of drug drops and robberies. But this? This is different. This isn’t just another job. This is my life on the line. My future. I can’t afford to fail. Breathe, Gwen. You’re a tough bitch. If I don’t run now, I might never get the chance again. And no matter what, when Jameson’s debt collectors come knocking, I’ll be caught in the crossfire.

Tightening my grip on my suitcase, I sling my bag over my shoulder, open the cab door, and slide in. There’s no turning back now. As the driver pulls away, I glance out the window, taking one last look at the house that used to be my personal hell. I wish I could see Jameson's face when he walks into an empty home see the fear in his eyes, the same fear I felt every single night he lost control.

Smiling to myself, I put my headphones in, let the music drown out my thoughts, and close my eyes and drift into sleep. Waking up as the car comes to a stop, I see the house that holds the remnants of my childhood. A place I once loved. Riviera Estate is one of the nicest properties on this side of the city passed down to my parents after my grandparents died. I was only two when we moved in. My mother grew up here. So did my grandmother. The towering trees in the back, with the old tire swing, the patio with its cast-iron table and chairs each detail pulls me into the past. The house is dark, unsurprising given the late hour. I open the door, grab my things, and pay the driver. Then I just stand there, frozen.

No one wants to come back home after being told they’re not welcome. My mother made that clear after my last arrest. She tried to force me out of her life, but it never worked. She was the one who picked me up from jail her face twisted with anger, her eye bruised, her lip split. I had given her too many reasons to hate me, and I can't blame her. No mother dreams of this for her little girl. Her daughter was supposed to be all bows and tiaras.

Instead, I became the furthest thing from it. Prim and proper were never in my vocabulary. I was a daddy’s girl, desperate to keep his attention at all costs. And he loved me. His death didn’t just break me. It killed a part of me I’ll never get back.

I was his shadow, his sidekick. I helped him build my treehouse. I baited the hook when we fished. What little girl wouldn’t adore a father like that? But after that day after losing him, nothing mattered anymore. I did everything I could to rebel. Now, at twenty-two, I see it for what it was. I was broken hearted from an early age; my self-destruction ran deeper than I understood. And that’s how I ended up here. Standing outside my mother’s house, everything I own sitting beside me. Snapping back to reality, I see the front porch light flick on. Well, here goes nothing. I clutch my belongings and make my way to the front door.

As I step onto the massive walkway, the door creaks open, revealing a tall, slender woman with striking green eyes. Even in her nightclothes, my mother looks like she just walked out of a movie trailer poised, flawless, not a single hair out of place. Wrapped in a robe, arms crossed, she stands in the doorway, looking at me as if she doesn’t know what to say. That makes two of us. “Gwen, is that you? What are you doing here so late?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, likely to keep the neighbors from listening in. “Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” I shift my bag on my shoulder, my grip tightening. “I need a place to stay. I want to come home.” My voice wavers, almost pleading.

I didn’t mean to sound so desperate. But when they say there’s no place like home, they mean it. I need my family. I need somewhere to feel safe. Safe a word that has felt more like a fantasy than reality for a long time. “Get in here, hurry up. It’s late.”

She ushers me inside, shutting the massive wooden door behind us. The grand entrance is just as I remember cold, pristine, a stark contrast to the warmth I long for. She steps back, her sharp eyes scanning me from head to toe as she circles me. My stomach knots, the sensation eerily similar to the moments before she’d send me to my room as a child. And then, without warning, she pulls me into her arms. My body stiffens at first, but then the floodgates burst. Tears spill down my cheeks, silent sobs racking my chest. I can’t stop them. The pain, the weight of the past few years, is pouring out of me, breaking me apart.

This is not tough-bitch energy. This is not what I had planned. But sometimes, the plans we make get wrecked so something better can take their place. I cling to her, letting the pain dissolve, letting my mind finally quiet from the chaos. This is what I needed, I did the right thing to start over. A new beginning.